


Three ways the Winchesters never lost their memory

by Hope



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 5 Things, Crack Fic, Gen, Pre-Series, Weechesters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-10-20
Updated: 2006-10-24
Packaged: 2017-10-02 00:27:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hope/pseuds/Hope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>http://hopeful-fiction.livejournal.com/47999.html</p>
        </blockquote>





	1. John

*

He wakes with heat at his back, dry sand on his face, and it's too quiet, no cool ambiance of water for it to be the beach. He can't open his eyes. When he tries, a mask of pain cracks out from his brow through into his skull, moan caught dry in his throat. Then there's a sound behind him, low rumbling growl and his instincts kick in before he can even _see_ where he is, pushing his body up and scrambling away from it. He can't find purchase, ground slipping and giving way beneath his hands, and he rolls, tumbling and sliding before coming to a stop, face down.

He opens his eyes. The sand is yellow, huge blurred grains this close, and he lets his eyes to adjust to the shade there before pushing cautiously against the ground again, rolling over. His whole body aches, and he blinks, lifting a heavy, numb hand to cup shade over his eyes while he looks around.

There isn't a tree in sight. He's in the desert. The goddamn _desert_, and his gaze follows the trail of his slither down the sandy embankment to a long, straight line of road cutting through the flat of it. Not the fucking jungle. The fucking _desert_.

He stumbles to his feet and his body's too light, second wave of panic surging through him as he recognizes the sensation for what it is; the lack of gear, of uniform, of his fucking _rifle_, _jesus_… He clambers back up toward the road, dropping down onto his belly, peering over the edge of it.

Desert. Fucking desert everywhere, no cover, not even on this fucking embankment and no fucking firepower and shit, _shit_\--he fumbles at his throat, feels only the bare skin and pounding pulse, soft cotton flannel of an open collar. Fuck. _Fuck_. If he's dead, he needs them, needs the fucking dog tags so they know who he is, and… _fuck._

Fuck. If he's _dead…_

There's the low rumbling sound again and he pushes himself back instinctively, sliding back half-way down the slope, hot sand clinging to his sweaty palms. The sound crescendos in a roar, truck passes over above him. He doesn't roll over again, stays as still as he can. No use moving. He can feel that he doesn't have any of his gear; no rifle, radio, water. No use moving. He's… _fuck._

_Winchester_, he thinks, and the name is clear at the back of his mouth, like fresh water. _My name is John Winchester._ It brings with it a whispering rush of images; a tall man with a weathered face and dark hair, a rifle, a young woman with flaxen hair, a black car. _John Winchester_.

Eventually he can stand. The pain is receding, not increasing. His mind skitters around thinking it again, but even if this isn't Hell it sure ain't Heaven, and there's no one else around, no one… Another car rushes by and he doesn't drop this time, though his fingers curl and itch for his rifle. The car looks strange, too high off the ground. Edges too smooth. The sun is bright, glinting off it as it drifts into the distance. Traveling.

Maybe he isn't one place or the other. Maybe he's between things.

_My name is John Winchester_, he thinks, and starts walking.

*

It's easier with the sun at his back, and it must be afternoon because it gets lower and hotter the further he goes. Cars and trucks rush by him, odd shapes that blur in his vision and then one stops, bright-silver, pulling in ahead of him. He stops walking, stands warily, watching. A door swings open and a man leans his head out, arm lifted to shade his eyes.

"John?" he calls.

John doesn't move. He can see the man clearly in the brilliant glare of sunlight, see his face screwed up and squinting, tawny brown hair and leathered skin.

"It is John, right? You have a break down?"

John blinks, pacing slowly closer, and nods.

"Well hop on in, you can't walk all the way to town."

The man watches John approach, not pulling his door closed again until John's level with the rear of the car, the silver metal purring softly, radiating heat.

It's icy cold inside though, and the man looks over at him and grins. "Air-con, huh? What’d we do without it? There's water in the bottle there, if you want it. You look a little burnt." He flips down the visor in front of John then presses the gas, low hum of the engine as they swing out on the road again.

John can't look away from the tiny mirror in the back of the visor. His face is red, flushed and scorched, couple days of stubble not masking the cracks of his skin, the lines of his brow. His own eyes stare back at him in something that more resembles his father's face, and he lifts a shaking hand to push the visor back up with a _snap_. The water's lukewarm, makes him instantly nauseous.

"You know, I didn't remember passing your car back there. Then again, could have missed it. You know how it gets on roads like this, you kinda… drift off." The man grins, darting glances at John.

John nods.

"Didn't pick you for the type to go a-wandering without water and sunblock, though," the man continues. "Though I'll admit it fits better with the whole city-slicker journalist gig you've got going."

The desert's breaking up in front of them, square shapes of buildings jutting up on either side of the road, the embankment on either side dipping into dirt driveways. They ease into it, car slowing with dusty glass shop fronts on either side, people walking around in broad-brimmed hats and dusty jeans, pushing shopping carts or prams, leading dogs. The heat shimmers off the tarmac.

The car slows more. "Guess I'll just drop you off in the middle of town, then…" the man says a little hesitantly, and then John's hands jerk involuntarily, body tensing forward.

"There," he says, voice rough, and points.

"Okie dokie," the man says, pulling into the motel parking lot. "There's a garage on the other side of town, they can take the tow out there to pick up your vehicle."

"Thanks," John says, but he's not looking back, slamming the door behind him, crunch of gravel underfoot as he walks towards it.

Low-slung black car, mirror-shine surface burning under his fingertips. _Chevy Impala. 1967_. He runs his hands over it, metal slick and radiating heat, and his eyes burn, throat closes up. It's his. It's his but it's the _only_ thing that's his here, it's all alien and he's _lost…_

There's the crunch-tinkle sound of breaking glass behind him and he turns quickly, head whipping around. His eyes narrow, squinting into the shade of the porch that extends around outside the motel rooms. There's a boy standing on the cracked concrete, brown paper bag of groceries tilted in his arms and smashed jar at his feet. His mouth is open, eyes wide as he stares at John, face dirty with grime and freckles, faded tee-shirt too big and loose at the neck.

Then the boy's dropping the bag entirely and running toward John, arms wrapping around John's legs, point of his nose sharp as he presses his face to John's belly. The boy's shoulders shudder and then he's pulling away again, looking up at John, wiping his forearm over his face briefly.

"Where…" he says, then pulls a face, sniffs. "Are you okay?"

John doesn't answer, feels his own face pull into a frown, staring down at the boy. The car is hot at his back, muscles tense still with the memory of the brief intensity of the boy's grip. John's hands are loose at his sides, swollen from the heat, still sand-dry.

The boy closes his mouth, throat moving as he swallows, and his eyes drift over John's body and to his face again. "Dad?"

His vision spins off for a moment, heat of the car abruptly solid at his back and _wrong_, the heat's all wrong, too dry and too bright, smells all wrong and his fist curls emptily again. His eyes, in his father's face; and he can't stop staring at the boy, now.

The boy's staring back, backing away a few more steps and pressing his lips together. His greasy hair flops a little over his forehead and he doesn't push it back. His legs are bare below faded denim cut-offs, dusted with pale golden hair and his ankles are scraped above the slouched top of his dusty sneakers. His mouth opens again, works for a moment before he licks his lips, swallows. "Christo," he says.

John swallows, feels his brows pushing down in confusion. Something flutters uneasily in his belly, as if struggling toward recognition. The boy's frozen still, watching him for a long moment.

"Who--" John starts, then has to stop, wet his throat, and the boy's shoulders slump as if in relief, sneakers shuffling forward again.

"Dad," he says. "What happened?"

"I'm not--" John says, stops again. The boy steps closer, and his fingers are hot and sticky around John's wrist, drawing him forward.

"Come on," he says, and John follows.

The boy loosens his hold to gather up the scattered groceries again, shifting the torn bag on his hip to dig in his other pocket for key. He slides it into the lock then pauses, looking back over his shoulder at John, expression inscrutable. He pushes the door open, not breaking his gaze until the last minute, and steps into the room, leaving space for John to follow.

The room's dim-lit with the warm glow of sunlight through the curtains, ripples of cooler light from a tiny television.

"I only left him for a few minutes," the boys says, and John's confused at first, blinking hard for his eyes to adjust from the brightness outside, watching the boy set the grocery bag down and turn back to him. The door shuts behind them solidly and John sees movement in his peripheral vision, on one of the beds.

Another boy. Blinking blearily as he lifts his head, then giving a cry when he catches sight of John, holding his arms out. "Daddy," he says, accusatory and demanding all at once.

"Shh," the other boy says, climbing onto the bed, gripping the tiny arms, lowering them, keeping his own wrapped around. "Sammy, quiet. It's okay." He looks back up at John, chin tipped up a little even as his shoulders curl inward. "It was just a few minutes. I… Sammy needed food. It's been days, Dad."

"I…" John shifts his weight, half lifts a hand; and the older boy tenses. John's breath catches. "I'm sorry," he says.

Sammy struggles a little against the arms around him. "_Dad,_" he says. "I _want_ you." His mouth turns down, hands gripping the forearms across his chest.

"I can't," John says, too hot and close and real in the motel room. "I don't--"

"It's okay," the boy says. He takes a deep breath that John can _hear_ the shudder of. "It's… Dean. I'm Dean." He loosens his grip on Sammy a little. "We'll fix this. It'll be okay."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://hopeful-fiction.livejournal.com/47999.html


	2. Dean

*

John tracks him to Las Vegas, following a tip-off from an old acquaintance who called out of the blue, crazy old coot who'd dropped off the face of the earth after telling everyone he'd seen some fox in the desert.

So it'd been a few days scouting around in Arizona, widening spirals outside of Phoenix and a bitch of a session trying to learn how to _scry_, for god's sake, then a phone call, tinny ring of his cell and an unfamiliar number on the display that he just _couldn't_ let go to voicemail, not _now_.

Then another day or two decoding the cryptic goddamn mumblings, then heading north.

He gets there at dawn, pulls into a parking lot with a chain-link fence. When he wakes again late in the afternoon he's sweating like crazy, the car smelling fusty and thick, parking lot stretching emptily around him. Dean had the last working credit card in his wallet, so John changes awkwardly in the car, fresh shirt and fresh pair of socks, winding the windows down to let the dry air waft in from the desert, backwash of stale beer and paper money coming from the town.

The lights are fire-bright, and everyone seems to be wearing something that reflects it. John's standing at the base of a goddamn pyramid, feeling like a black hole, when he catches sight of Dean. The tilt of his shoulders below a black jacket is unmistakable, his easy, rolling walk on into the casino.

John shoves his hands into his pockets and follows, slight distance though he doesn't really need to make sure. Dean turns his head to watch a girl shimmer past him, and the profile of his mouth, curled a little open in an interested smirk, eyebrows lifted, makes John's heart surge up to pound in his throat. So damn familiar. _God._

He flexes his fingers in his pockets before speeding up his pace, striding forward and it's only a handful of steps to where Dean's half-slouching, body rocking a little like his movement's gratefully dictated by the buffeting sights around him. He's wearing the same damn jeans he was a week ago, the same boots, but he's picked up a _dress_ jacket somewhere, red collar of his shirt rising above the black at the back of his neck.

John stands behind him, grips Dean's upper arm, pulls him around. "Dean."

Dean's a little startled, eyes wide and jaw dropped a little, but when he sees John's face his mouth shapes into an open grin. "There you are," he says, "what took you so long?" Then drops his arms over John's shoulders, tilts his head and leans forward in one fluid motion, kisses John right on the mouth.

John's teeth clench, he feels the slick of Dean's tongue against his lips as they peel back. His hands clench in the front Dean's shirt, shoving him away. "Jesus," he grits. "What the _hell_?"

Dean tilts his head back, still lazy grin, mouth gleaming. It's too damn loud in the casino, sounds bright and chittering like the multitude of lights, but John can still hear the heavy hammer of his pulse in his ears. Dean's arms have slid back against John's shoulders, just Dean's wrists pressing against them now, and Dean's still looking at him and smiling.

"I know you, right?" Dean says. "Or you certainly know me."

John blinks. _Goddamn._ The little _brat_. The goddamn _scrying_ and _this_ is what it was? "Yeah," he says shortly. "I know you. Come on." He grabs a handful of Dean's jacket at the elbow, jerks Dean's touch off his shoulder, turns heel and hauls Dean back on out of there.

The sound of Dean's feet on the pavement behind him is loud, and when John glances back over his shoulder Dean's still grinning like a fool, looking all around him and back at John like he's on some sightseeing tour, his gait liquid and relaxed.

The parking lot's filling up again, plenty of cars but not that many people, and John shoves Dean against the closed trunk before taking a step back. John can't even _look_ at him, jesus, just pace a little back and forth, cross his arms back over his chest.

Okay. It's not bad. Not as bad as it could be. He can fix this.

"What the hell happened?"

Dean's not smiling now. Still watching him, though. He shrugs. "I don't… Nothing happened."

"How the hell did you _get_ here?"

Dean's face twitches into a brief frown. "I've always been here."

"Okay." John rubs a hand briefly over his face. "Okay." And just what the hell is _that _meant to mean? That something happened _here_, in Vegas? _Not_ in Phoenix? Then why the hell…

"Look, it's just--" Dean says, and John stops, looks at him. "I _know_ I know you, right?" Dean leans his ass back against the trunk, bracing his feet a little wide, tilting his head back without breaking John's gaze. "What's your name?"

"John," John says automatically, then shakes his head a little. "But look, Dean, I'm--"

"You're my Dad, aren't you?"

John's shoulders slump a little, breath huffing out, and he takes a couple of steps closer.

"Daddy. I knew it." Dean's positively _beaming_, hands reaching for John again, gripping John's collar and pulling--

"Dean, for chris_sakes_\--!" They're almost _wrestling_ for a moment, John's arms coming up to push Dean's away again, frustration and drawn-out anxiety making his movements sharp and Dean's movements are too slow, not as quick and alert as he should be, too damn _relaxed_.

"I'm your father, okay? I'm your father." John stands out of reach, forcing his breathing to slow.

Dean blinks, mouth twisting down a little, then slow curve up again. He slants John a glance, head tilted. "I don't think so."

"What? I'm--jesus, Dean, we are _not_ arguing about this."

Dean shakes his head, but his smile's a little fainter. "You're not. You can't be."

John gives a brief, helpless laugh, turning away for a moment before turning back, looking Dean in the eye. "Dean. That's enough."

Dean's not smiling at all now, and he breaks their gaze first, looking down and away. He's still leaning against the trunk, and his hands rest on either sides of his hips, shoulders slumping down. "How…" he says softly, all easy delight gone from his tone, now. "Can you fix me?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://hopeful-fiction.livejournal.com/48186.html


	3. Sammy

*  
John gets the call late afternoon, and it's cryptic like the language he's just learning to speak, silences he's learning how to listen to. The time's set for mid-evening, late enough that Dean'll be asleep by the time John leaves, early enough that he doesn't worry too much about leaving the boys alone. Sammy doesn't usually wake until closer on midnight, like clockwork now, fussing for John to pick him up or even just rub his belly, Dean more often than not stirring and settling back down with them both.

It's a bust, though. The cryptic guy doesn't turn up, leaving John feeling like he's itching for a fight or somesuch, frustrated anticipation, and he tries to quench the spark to violence with more than a couple of beers. He doesn't feel woozy so much as washed out when it's long it's past time to get back to the boys. He's driving slowly, carefully, eyes sliding along the groove of the yellow line with the landscape empty and dark on either side, so he almost misses it.

Flash of colour in the edge of the headlights. Couple beats before his mind catches up with what he's seen. Both feet stomping on the brake pedal, back wheels of the Chevy sliding out a little and his body jerking forward violently at the sudden stop-and-swerve.

Doesn't stop to shut the door behind him, just starts running back though his legs feel abruptly weak, like the adrenaline surge's bypassed his muscles and gone straight into his lungs and heart, pounding and pumping like they're going to burst.

Dean hasn't stopped walking. Or stumbling, more like, body tottering forward like every time he sets his foot down it's stopping him from falling face-down as much as it's propelling him forward. He's still in his pyjamas, faded blue with dirty cuffs, his feet bare. He doesn't stop when John shouts out at him, doesn't even turn. Dean's sobbing, the sound loud in the still night, overriding the rumble of the engine behind John, Dean pulling in breaths with sharp hitches.

His small body goes limp when John grabs his upper arms, though it takes a few moment for his eyes to focus. "Dean," John says urgently, gripping a little harder. "_Dean_. What happened? Where's your brother?"

Dean surges forward again, face twisting, and John can't tell if he's trying to get closer or get free. He wraps his arms around Dean to stop the movement, hold him still, and Dean's heart pounds rabbit-fast against John's chest.

"Dean," John says. "Dean. _Dean. Where is he?_"

*

All he has is a direction. The one that Dean'd still be heading in if John hadn't decided to leave the bar when he did, maybe left it a little later. Dean's descriptions of the car had been age-appropriate; it was long and blue, with red lights on the back. Their motel room's a story with too many plot points missing; he can see the rumple in the sheets where Sam and Dean were sleeping, see where the blanket was pulled back. Can see the lamp with its shade knocked off when Dean's body must have hit it. Can't tell who they were. What they wanted. Except Sammy.

Dean barely strays out of touching distance, and John can't even be mildly irritated at it. Dean's closeness is anchor and ache both. He curls against John at night, a warm, damp-faced ball of misery that loosens when he sleeps. John doesn't sleep.

*

He has a direction. The story fills out, makes more sense; they follow the trail across four states to house painted pastel-blue, lawn green and short-cropped. There's a set of white steps leading up to the lace-edged porch, and a chemical taste at the back of John's throat, acrid and burnt. He doesn't look back, doesn't want to see Dean's face in the car window, pressed up close to watch from across and down the street, car doors locked. Keys in there too.

The door to the house is open, not even latched. There's a smear of blood on the white frame, a few hours old. The house reeks. As soon as he steps inside he hears Sammy.

Someone's been here before him. Doesn't mean they've already left, though. The sound of Sammy crying sends tendrils of hot wire through his muscles, tightening and uncontrollable all at once, and the butt of the pistol is sweaty in his palms. The house is well lived-in, well taken care of. There're a pair of floral-print sofas in the front room, dark-wood coffee table squatting between them. He paces silently closer, looks around for more doorways. There's a body on the floor, between the sofa nearest John and the coffee table. Hardly any blood; just wide eyes and bared teeth, symbol John doesn't recognise carved red into the forehead. Posthumously; the skin's just opened up, no bleeding.

Sammy's cries don't get louder until John gets to the stairs at the center of the house. There's another body at the foot of them, face down, no symbol when he nudges it over. The surge of nausea at the sight of the head flopping wrongly on the neck is distant, like it's happening to someone else. His heart is fluttering down in his belly, the sound of Sam crying like a dream. He can hear a car going by on the street, hear a lawnmower start up in a yard nearby.

The bodies are the only incongruousness in the soft-frilled edges of the house until he reaches the nursery. Nursery only because of the crib in it. Ordinary crib, ordinary blankets. Carpet torn up, more unrecognisable symbols painted dirty red onto the bare boards.

Sammy's wearing a new jumpsuit. He's sitting, legs in front of him, fists clenched and face screwed up, screaming. John shoves the pistol into his jacket pocket and strides forward, two steps from the door to the crib and Sammy's chest heaving in his hands.

Sam's face is wet against the side of his neck, Sam's body stiff as he arches and shrieks. His fists pound against John's chest, shoulder, and the desperate rage of it weakens the solid lump at the base of John's throat, leaves him reeling and almost weeping in relief. He presses Sammy to him, hand-span flat across Sammy's back, and then freezes, seeing the scorched remains of the curtains, flapping a little from the breeze coming in through the broken window. He edges toward it, stroking Sammy's back in an effort to quiet him, and peers down into the back yard. Another body. Ragged clothes barely covering it, flesh seared a bloody red.

John swallows hard, turns heel and leaves the nursery. Jogs back down the stairs. Sammy's stopped struggling by the time they reaches the front door, body limp with exhaustion, but he's still crying, the same despairing wails as after Mary died, with a few more months worth of voice in them this time.

Dean fumbles with the lock when he sees them, holding his arms out for Sammy. His eyes are wide, awe edging on terror, and John hands over the baby before climbing in over both of them, sliding into the driver's seat. He reaches over them again to pull the door closed, then peels out of the street.

*

Sammy won't stop crying. Dean rocks and shushes, murmurs and begs. He looks to John, and John stops looking back after the first hour or so. He's almost afraid to touch them, keeps both hands on the wheel and eyes straight ahead, getting them as far away as possible. They cross the state line before Sammy falls asleep, face still streaked with tears, breath still hitching in half-sobs even in sleep.

"What's wrong with him, Dad?" Dean's voice is soft and terrified. John can't breathe, so he doesn't answer. Dean doesn't ask any more questions.

*

They stop when John can't drive any more, when Dean's head is nodding though his grip on Sammy stays just as firm. The vacancy sign shines pink in the fresh twilight, and the gravel of the lot crunches under their tires.

John carries them both into the room; Dean not waking but curling in on himself on the bed when John takes Sammy from his arms.

Sam's not hurt. Not physically, anyway, nothing that John can see. He's clean, not malnourished. John changes his diaper, the one Sam was wearing a different brand. He threads Sammy's sleeping limbs into one of Sam's own jumpsuits, the unfamiliar one John'd found him in smells _wrong_, like someone else's child.

*

The red lines of the digital clock only show a few hours passed when John wakes. Sammy's crying again, hoarse-throated misery on the bed beside John, and Dean stirs on the opposite side, sits up.

"Shh, Sammy," Dean says, and his voice sounds just as raw, like he's been the one screaming non-stop for the past four hundred miles. His hand rubs Sammy's belly, gentle and sure at first, then hesitant. "Daddy," he says, voice uneven.

John knows already he doesn't want to hear what Dean's going to say. Doesn't have an answer to Dean's question. He wants Dean to be asleep again, wants Sammy asleep with him, wants them both safe and whole. He wants Sammy to stop crying, _god_, just doesn't know what to _do_. _Mary_.

He wants to tell Dean it's okay. That everything's going to be okay. Wants to tell Dean he can _fix_ things, and have Dean believe him.

"Dad," Dean says, soft but not whisper-soft, not lost under Sammy's cries. "I don't think he remembers us. I think he forgot us."

"Babies don't forget that quick, Dean." He reaches out at last, rests his hand over Dean's on Sammy's hitching belly. "Look at him, he hasn't even grown at all." John swallows again, the sound of his own shaking breath lost under Sammy's crying. "He still needs us. Of course he remembers."

"He's still little," Dean says, and it sounds more like despair than agreement. His fingers tense and curl under John's palm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://hopeful-fiction.livejournal.com/48502.html


End file.
